


Underdressed

by Calmerion Anon (angrymermaids)



Series: Calmerion [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Morning After, Skyrim Kink Meme, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrymermaids/pseuds/Calmerion%20Anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Climbing the Seven Thousand Steps seems a lot less doable when the alternative is snuggling and nursing a hangover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underdressed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this prompt](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4295.html?thread=7873223) on the Skyrim Kink Meme.

“Gwilin?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Are there really seven thousand steps?”  
  
The adorable elf’s adorable brow crinkled a little. “I’m not sure. I haven’t actually made the climb myself. It’s a lot of steps, though.”  
  
Calmerion sighed and flung an arm over his aching eyes. The Nords’ mead went down so smoothly that he hadn’t thought it was very strong, but now he was definitely feeling it. He was not looking forward to climbing any number of steps up a mountain in this state.  
  
His current situation was much better. Warm, soft furs. A nice dark room that smelled of pine. An armful of energetic, sexy,  _adorable_  Gwilin who kept kissing him and caressing his body. Sure, he had a headache. Sure, he just knew some of those tingling bites on his neck were going to be lovely bruises when he looked at them. Sure, his legs burned from being in the saddle all day yesterday. But all things considered, there were much, much worse ways to wake up.  
  
“And you’re sure it’s too steep to ride,” he said.  
  
“Absolutely. Even if you manage to get your horse to walk all the way up, it’ll break a leg coming back down. It’s happened before. Also, there are trolls.” Gwilin put his head back down in the hollow of Calmerion’s neck and shoulder.  
  
“Great. Trolls.”  
  
He lay silently for a few minutes, listening to Gwilin’s breathing and feeling his heartbeat against his arm. Then, just as he was contemplating closing his eyes and procrastinating the trip just a little more, he nearly fell off the bed when someone started pounding on the door.  
  
“Gwilin! Get up! Don’t make me come in there!”  
  
“I’m already up, Miss Temba!” He was on his feet and getting dressed in a flash, but not before giving Calmerion another kiss.  
  
“How do you put up with her?” Calmerion said. He glared at the door as he dragged himself upright and started feeling around for his pants. He felt a little more alive after a few dippers of water, but still rather sluggish.  
  
Gwilin shrugged. “She’s not so bad, once you get to know her. And we’re all working twice as hard as usual because of the bears.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Bears. They tear up trees all over the place from here to Riften.” He buckled his belt. “I think she mentioned she’d pay for their skins.”  
  
Speaking of skin, Calmerion had located all of his clothes except his shirt. Then the memory hit him, and he slapped his forehead (but not too hard, his headache reminded him). For some reason, his Drunk Self had thought it was a great idea to stuff his shirt into one of his saddlebags instead of taking it with him into Gwilin’s room at the Vilemyr Inn. Not anything else, thankfully, just his shirt. That still meant he had to go outside into the cold to get it, feeling everyone’s judgment as he did so.  
  
He could tell something was wrong as soon as he walked out of the inn and his eyes adjusted to the merciless light. Most of the town was out, some of them armed, and there was a cluster of guards in the road just in front of the inn. His first instinct was to bolt. Either the Thalmor had found him here, or Ivarstead had found out more about him than he’d hoped. Either way, he had to get out before he ended up in several pieces.  
  
But after a tense heartbeat spent actually looking around, he realized there was no danger. The weapons were sheathed and most people were simply going about their business, albeit a little more warily than usual. Gwilin noticed it too, and he looked up at Calmerion with a small frown, as if to ask him if he knew what was going on.  
  
One of the guards spotted him and came up to the porch. “You. Traveler. What’s your name?”  
  
“Me? Calmerion.”  
  
“There’s a horse thief about,” she said. “Made off with your horse before dawn—the town guard’s on it, and we’ve spread the word. Everyone’s on the lookout.”  
  
“Damn it.”  _And damn you twice over, Drunk Self._  “I left all my stuff in my saddlebags.”  
  
The guard crossed her arms. “Should have brought your bags inside. That’s what you get, leaving your valuables out.”

“I didn’t have any valuables! I had a shirt, eight septims, and a water skin!” Calmerion scrubbed his eyes. “Auriel, why.” It was a nice shirt, too. Dark green lambs’ wool with some interesting knotwork around the collar, it was so far the only article of clothing he’d managed to find in Skyrim that didn’t fit like it had been made for a child. And, because he was apparently a big idiot when he’d been drinking with a hot wood elf, it was now in the possession of some lowlife who was making his way across the Rift on his horse.  
  
He was stuck out here, half-dressed and horseless, without any money to remedy either situation. And he was still due to climb the mountain and meet the Greybeards. Just great.  
  
“You could stay here for a little while until things get sorted out,” Gwilin said, his voice optimistic as usual. “If you can chop wood fast, I’m sure Temba will pay you.”  
  
“No. I have to go to High Hrothgar, I’ve been putting it off too long.” Calmerion wrapped his arms around himself against the early-morning chill. “Just need to find a shirt first.”  
  
“You can borrow one of mine.”  
  
“Gwilin, I’m literally a foot taller than you. I don’t think it’s going to fit. Thanks anyway, though.”  
  
But he insisted. Back in his room, he dug the loosest shirt he owned out of his clothes chest, held it up to Calmerion’s torso, and proclaimed that it would be just fine, probably. It did fit, though the sleeves ended well above his wrists and the hem came up above the waistband of his pants, leaving a narrow strip of golden skin exposed.  
  
“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Gwilin stepped back to assess his handiwork. “Although… there’s no hiding that.” He reached up to Calmerion’s neck and touched one of the tender spots that he’d suspected would be bruised.  
  
“Is it bad?”  
  
“No! Not at all. I mean, I don’t think it’s bad,” Gwilin said with a smile. Calmerion couldn’t help smiling back.  
  
“If anyone points it out, I’ll just say I was stung by a bee,” he said, and the shorter elf laughed.  
  
Back outside, there was still no sign of Calmerion’s horse or his own shirt. Temba’s voice was ringing out from across the street, something about her twitter-pated apprentice and irresponsible elves and those damn bears ruining every scrap of wood in the province. Time to part ways and get to work, either at the mill or on the path up the mountain.  
  
“I’d better go,” Gwilin said. He stood on his toes and wrapped his arms around Calmerion’s neck, and he returned the embrace. “Be careful up there. I hope the Greybeards tell you what’s going on.”  
  
“So do I. I’ll come find you on the way down from the mountain?”  
  
“Certainly.” Gwilin’s pleasant face wore a smile easily. He pressed a pack of rolls into Calmerion’s hands and gave him one last kiss before seeing him off to the path up the mountain. Not for the first time since meeting him, Calmerion wondered how he could be so happy all the time. He’d explained it, but it still boggled the imagination. What an extraordinary mer.  
  
The walk was quiet at first. The rising sun felt good—not exactly warm, and he wondered how high he would get before it got too cold in just a thin, too-small shirt. But he wasn’t going to give up now, before he’d even gotten started. He tried to count the steps. Some of them were buried or worn away and eventually he lost count, with a twinge of regret as he gave up on finding out if there really were seven thousand of them. Maybe it was a metaphor for “a hell of a lot of steps” instead of the exact number.  
  
He passed a worn stone tablet carved with a short, mysterious inscription. He couldn’t make out half of it, and the half he could read didn’t make any sense, but he stood there and mulled it over for a moment before continuing on.  
  
He had hoped he would be alone on the Seven Thousand Steps. Once again, he was disappointed. He crossed a hunter with a pair of foxes over his shoulder and a well-used bow in one hand. He looked weathered and hardy, but his eyes widened in surprise upon seeing Calmerion and he stopped walking.  
  
“You’re not going to High Hrothgar, are you?” he said.  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
The Nord laughed. “You’ll freeze! And without weapons you’ll be eaten by a troll!”

“Mage.” Calmerion twiddled his fingers for emphasis.  
  
“Eh, should have guessed that. Still, you’re not dressed for the trip, elf. You should go home.” The hunter continued down the hill.  _Go home_. If only it was that simple.  
  
“Did you hear the Greybeards call ‘Dovahkiin’?” Calmerion said.  
  
“Yeah. Strange.”  
  
“That was me they were calling.”  
  
The man stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “You? The Greybeards were calling  _you_?” He sounded shocked, but not wholly unpleasant, Calmerion was relieved to note. He was shocked, too. Still shocked, though he should have adjusted by now.  
  
Would he ever adjust? Or was trying to make sense of life an exercise in futility? After all that had happened recently, he was inclined to believe the latter.  
  
“Yes. I’m… Dovahkiin.” It sounded so pathetic when he said it. Maybe the word didn’t have the same gravitas in a Summerset accent, or maybe it was just him.  
  
“Huh.” The hunter seemed to hesitate. Then he tossed a rolled-up cloak at him. “You’re still going to freeze. Take this. Watch out for animals.”  
  
“Thank you,” Calmerion said, but the man was already walking away.  
  
He kept going.  
  
There was a stream running alongside the path as he continued up higher, further away from Ivarstead and the people going about their daily tasks in the mountain’s shadow. He paused for a moment to drink some water and splash a little into his face. It was ice-cold, just like the air as he kept climbing upward, and he was grateful for the cloak. His legs, already sore from riding, burned steadily as the number of stairs mounted. He was sure they’d already passed seven thousand. No trolls yet, but he kept a spell ready in his right hand just in case.  
  
As much as he was loath to admit it, the view was… quite something. The clear, cool mountain air made it all sharper. It was almost intimately familiar, even though he’d spent most of his life in heat and humidity, surrounded by lush greenery and flowers without number. Looking out at Skyrim, at its crags and frosted woods and the sky that never seemed to end, for the first time, he really saw its beauty.  
  
At least, he saw its beauty until he crossed another traveler.  
Her eyes narrowed when he approached. “What’s your business here, elf?”  
  
“Climbing the mountain, obviously,” he replied in the same attitude.   
  
“These are the Seven Thousand Steps. You probably don’t know what that means. Show respect while you’re walking them.”  
  
He felt a sneer tugging at the corner of his nose, but forced his face back into a neutral expression. “You didn’t hear the Greybeards call ‘Dovahkiin,’ did you?”  
  
“Of course I did. Everyone heard it.” She put her hands on her hips. “Why are you asking?”  
  
“It’s me. They were calling me.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
“Well, they were.” Not that Calmerion cared what she thought about him, or what she believed he was doing. “But I know what the steps are, and what High Hrothgar is. I’m going to see the Greybeards.”  
  
She looked him up and down. “You look more like you’re trying to find your way home from the whorehouse,” she said. Calmerion didn’t have time to protest her assumption before she waved her hand and kept walking down the path. “Well, Talos guide you, whoever you are.”  
  
His first response was “your false human god can’t guide anything,” but he swallowed it and just nodded stiffly before drawing his cloak around himself and walking away.

He kept passing the little worn tablets, each one more cryptic than the last, though they seemed to tell a story. If only he could read the words, maybe they would shed some light on this Dragonborn situation. But he couldn’t. Maybe the Greybeards could tell him what they said.  
  
The trees grew sparse. Hard patches of snow gleamed in the sunlight, which beat down on his unprotected head and sent shards of light into his still-sensitive eyes. Despite the sun’s intensity, the air was cold, cold enough to bite through the thick woolen cloak. Calmerion grudgingly admitted to himself that he would have frozen without it, or more likely, would have turned back a while ago. He had to be almost there. There were no other travelers on the steps, neither hunters nor pilgrims. There was a troll, finally, a big ugly white-furred one, but he saw it before it saw him, and the fight was short. He beat it back with his usual lightning. A final push sent it flying over the edge of the path and onto the rocks below.  
  
The effort taxed him more than usual, whether from the hangover or the altitude or both, and he sat down for a few minutes before continuing. One of Gwilin’s rolls gave him the energy to finish the trip. Despite Calmerion’s current discomfort, he wouldn’t say it hadn’t been worth it, drinking all that delicious mead and then spending the night with him. The Bosmer was even sweeter than the mead was, and didn’t leave him with a headache in the morning.  
  
When he continued, it was only a few more turns before his destination came into view. High Hrothgar rose over the path, craggy and stark against the brilliant sky. He stopped briefly, taking it in and wondering at how only a few months ago, he never would have imagined he’d end up here for any reason. He hadn’t even known this place existed until recently, and he still didn’t know what it all meant.  
  
Hopefully the trek up the Seven Thousand Steps would give him at least one answer and hopefully not too many more questions. Maybe they couldn’t tell him everything, but they wouldn’t have brought him here without intending to tell him something useful.  
  
The door loomed over him, dark and silent, a portal into a different world.  
  
He didn’t know who the Greybeards were had been expecting when they summoned the Dragonborn to their monastery. A silent warrior clad in wolfskins, maybe, or a gray-eyed archer maiden. Probably not a cranky, bedraggled, kind of hungover elf wearing a tiny shirt and displaying several obvious love bites on his neck.  
  
Whoever they were expecting, it was all over now. Calmerion was the Dragonborn, and he had answered the call.  
  
“This is it,” he muttered to himself, placing his hands on the door. “Time to see what they want with me.” He took a deep breath and pushed it open.


End file.
